


recipe for disaster

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Love Triangles, One Night Stands, Sort Of, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: “We just...saw each other this morning. Are you—kidding me? Osamu?” You glance around the kitchen, filled with bustle and cheer. “You told me you were a volleyball player—not a chef.”“I see you’ve met my twin brother.”In which you wake up after a one night stand with Atsumu Miya, only to realize that you'll be interviewing as a line cook for his twin brother, Osamu Miya.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Reader, Miya Osamu/Reader
Comments: 31
Kudos: 280





	recipe for disaster

**Author's Note:**

> hello . this was supposed to be a one-shot but what else is new, everything i ever write balloons into...crap hahhaahahaaha
> 
> thank you WINTER for the inspired osamu hand-on-waist headcanon

You’re hazy.

Eyes peel open slow like a sloth, as if they’ve been glued together overnight by honey, cheap beer, and shitty drunk decisions. You have zero idea where you are and the unfamiliar yellow stain on the ceiling of this bedroom is a firm reminder of that, as you pull yourself up and take stock of your surroundings: a nightstand, a rolling chair covered in old jerseys, and a desk lamp that’s somehow found its way to the floor next to a pile of fan paraphernalia.

Huh. _Weird_.

Well, at least you’re in a bed, albeit a stiff one. There’s only one pillow here—and apparently only one body. _Yours_. You wonder if the guy you slept with was probably nice enough to give you some space to avoid a perilously _awkward situation_. Or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with you after he saw you in the morning light. And for the record, you might consider yourself grateful for that bit of generosity, however insulting it is.

Until you hear some snoring that doesn’t belong to you.

Some snoring that’s frankly unfamiliar to you.

It isn’t until you look over the edge of the bed that you find a naked body face down on the ground. A very toned naked body. _Toned and tall_. And cut. And lean.

 _Nice butt_ , you think, studying it with your head cocked like you're studying a work of art in the Louvre. But from this angle, it has the unfortunate look of a corpse, and for a second you’re genuinely convinced it _is_ a corpse until it makes a grunt.

(Whew. He’s alive. Crisis averted.)

Suddenly the night’s worth of regrets come flooding back into your head as you look down at your bottom half and realize you’re missing your goddamn panties.

You scramble for your phone, which is wedged between the nightstand and the bedframe, realize it’s 8:03am, and clamber out of bed with a litter of profanities escaping that wonderful pirate’s mouth of yours.

“Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck my life, fuck,” you mutter, checking every last corner in the room for your lost panties. You pick up the pillow from the bed, see that it’s not hiding underneath, and throw it onto the naked ass of the body on the floor to cover up whatever indecency is left of the morning before moving towards the chair of old jerseys. "Fuck my life, fuck my life, fuck my life--"

“ _Oof_.”

The stranger peers up at you from the ground, eyes lazy and heavy-lidded like he’s staring into a new face for the very first time.

 _Yikes_. He doesn’t recognize you, which might be for the better because you don’t intend to do the whole post-coitus interview that somewhat inevitably befalls every drunken hookup. _Hi my name is, what do you do for a living, oh that’s cool—_ the contrived casualties, the pretend-you-care.

“Panties. Black. Lacy. Looking for them,” you say, sounding like you’re reading a list of groceries. And like a damned magician, he reaches underneath the pillow he’s sleeping on and manifests the very panties you’re looking for, holding it up in the air like he’s holding some kind of used tissue paper.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers and you reach out and grab it from his hands.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome,” he murmurs, voice muffled against his pillow. “Hope you get to your interview on time.”

You’re surprised he even remembers as you pull up your underwear inside out, feeling very gross about this whole ordeal because they’re a day old and probably covered in yesterday night’s regrets.

“Hope you get to your game on time,” you tell him, glancing at yourself in the mirror on the wall. “I’d love to catch you play one day but…”

Your hair is all mussed up, and you dab it down halfheartedly as you smooth out your shirt and catch sight of the jerseys in his closet. “As my parting gift, I’ll never mention this moment again," you state plainly. "Next time we meet each other, if we ever do, we’ll be strangers.”

He stands up to grab his boxer briefs from underneath the bed and you try not to stare at his abs (see: toned, thick, cut). “Glad we’re on the same page,” he yawns, and maybe you _should_ feel somewhat insulted but you were the one who brought it up to begin with after all.

You offer him some privacy as he dresses himself and try not to stare at how lean he looks underneath the glow of the morning sun. All muscle, bulging, thick—oh, right. That same body had been on top of you the night before. Well, on top of and inside you, but that’s something you can regret another day.

“Atsumu, by the way,” he says, reaching out a hand for you to shake.

“I thought we said we would pretend we’re strangers,” you reply, still taking him on his offer, trying not to straight up stare at his arms and how toned they look. Those arms--right--those arms had been cradling your neck as he--

 _Ah fuck_. Moving along.

“Oi, I’m bein’ polite here,” he says. “But we can still play pretend, if that’s what you’re into.”

“Definitely not. I hope you don’t mind me saying but I hope we never meet again,” you tell him, beaming.

He beams right back with a smile that reeks of insincerity, “Right back at you, sweetheart.”

**

The restaurant you’re interviewing at is packed with patrons lining up the corner. You have to physically elbow your way through the crowd before you get inside, where you find the front of house—a girl whose nametag reads _Nami_.

“I’m looking for,” you check the email on your phone. “Osamu?” _Huh. Weird name_. “I have an interview today.”

She beams, “Oh! Fun.” She leads you towards the kitchen, where you find one very familiar face overlooking the list of orders at the front.

“Your interviewee is here,” says Nami, beaming.

Said guy in question turns around at the sound of her voice, meeting your gaze with a small smile, “You’re a little late—"

“This is a joke, right?” You say, blinking at him. “You—I—is this a prank or something?”

He looks peeved, “A joke?”

You scoff, not quite understanding, “We just...saw each other this morning. Are you—kidding me? Osamu? How did you even get here before me?” You glance around the kitchen, filled with bustle and cheer. “You told me you were a volleyball player—not a chef.”

“I see you’ve met my twin brother.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t return it. _Oh_. He’s serious. He actually has a twin brother.

You bow your head low, “I'm so sorry. Can we start over again?”

“Sure.” He smiles. “Why don’t you start off by telling me your name?”

**

“So why are you here?”

Osamu hasn’t stopped moving since you’ve arrived. He has a hand in nearly every jar—from playing front of house, to passing off deliveries, to taking orders, to greeting return-customers. And for the most part, you follow along like a lost puppy dog, trying to field whatever questions he has for you as he goes about his day.

“Well, I want to be a chef,” you explain, sounding oddly insincere about it.

He snorts, dropping off a platter of edamame at the table closest to the kitchen, “You went to culinary school. You interned at the French Institute in New York. You don’t need this.”

Oh, he actually read the resume you sent over. You look a little surprised about it but shake it off when you realize he’s still moving without stop. Back to the kitchen he goes with you following in tow as he calls out the next set of orders.

“I sort of do,” you tell him. "Need this, I mean."

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

You take a breath, “I need money.” It’s the killing blow to what might be the end of your interview for good, but you decide not to beat around the bush since it seems like he can smell bullshit from a mile away.

“Alright, fair enough,” he laughs. “What’s your availability like?”

“Weekdays, weekends, nights—you name it,” you say.

“OK, good. Might have you pick up a couple of shifts then. When can you start?”

You straighten your back a little, feeling that knob of stress inside your ribcage unwind as you meet his gaze, “Anytime.”

He wipes his hands on his dry towel, setting his hands on his hips, “How about today?”

**

After you get changed in the backroom -- black t-shirt, black pants, baseball cap that reads _Onigiri Miya_ \-- Osamu starts showing you the ropes. The shop is small (capacity: 15 people, with seven of the seats by the counter), there’s only two other cooks working in the kitchen (one of them is a dishwasher), and there’s one front of house, that bubbly girl you met earlier in the day named Nami.

“You’re gonna have to gets your hands wet wherever we need you,” he explains. “Y’know, whether it’s playing waitress, busboying, or carrying out drinks. We’ll have you on as a line cook, but don’t be surprised if I ask you to smile pretty at the entrance too.”

He looks at you for affirmation, and you nod, “That’s fine with me.” You know how a kitchen runs, but you’ll probably have to learn on the fly when interacting with customers. But it’s a family establishment. It would make sense that you’d have to take on more than one role around here.

“OK, now we get to the most important question,” he says, pulling up two chairs by the counter, where there’s a tub of fresh white rice and a platter of ingredients: spicy tuna, kelp, sesame seeds—the works. “Have you ever made a riceball before?”

“Well, obviously,” you take the seat next to him, accidentally touching thighs with him before grabbing yourself a fistful of rice from the tub. It makes you antsy--being that close, so you scoot over in hopes of keeping some respectful distance. “It was a staple of almost every lunchbox I ever had growing up.”

"Ah."

You study him -- he looks _a lot_ like his brother -- which gives you a serious bout of dejavu as you try to avoid to realization that his carbon copy was literally inside you the night before. “I’m sure it was the same for you too," you say, hoping that whatever smalltalk you're making will distract you from your very, very poor life decisions.

The corners of his lips tip up to form a smile, “It was. My brother used to beg our mom to make ‘em every. Single. Meal. Can ya believe that?"

“I can, actually,” you say, finding yourself matching his stride. _I can believe it more than you possibly know_. "I guess that's why Onigiri Miya came to be."

“Exactly.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, sauntering in through the front door in his athletic uniform, covered in sweat.

_Fuck._

He doesn’t smile much (no surprise there), and when his gaze settles on you, that look of indifference melts into something of shock— _then anger_. You smile back at him in a loving, chagrined manner, hoping he remembers the exact promise he made you this morning. _Next time we'll meet we'll be strangers_.

“Oi, look who’s here early,” says Osamu, grinning, looking down at the riceball that’s crumbled underneath your touch. “You’re a little rusty, huh.”

“I—” Your eyes immediately dart down at your workstation as your insides _recoil_. Maybe he won't recognize you in that uniform. _Maybe he wouldn’t_ —

“Oi. _You_.”

You peer up, fingers covered in rice, and feel your insides wilt when you realize he’s sitting in the empty seat by the counter across from you. “Huh. Guess you didn’t get your wish,” he says, acting mighty casual about it before turning to his brother. “What is she—your new riceball girl?”

Osamu barely bats a lash, “Oi, be nice. It’s her first day.”

“Oh yeah? Could’ve sworn she said she had an interview—"

“Shh— _shut the hell up_ ,” you hiss, engrossing yourself with your riceball.

Osamu arches a brow, “Ah, right. You two know each other.”

“No we don’t,” both of you answer simultaneously.

He laughs a little, "OK, weirdos."

It’s quiet, air totally frigid between you two as you avert your gaze to your hands, where you start fussing up a new riceball. For the most part, you copy all of Osamu’s movements, all the while avoiding Atsumu’s withered gaze.

“I would’ve assumed—”

“—then don’t,” interjects Atsumu, frowning. He grabs a menu, looking very unimpressed at the sight of you. “Tuna riceball. And water. With a lemon wedge. Now.”

Osamu is unimpressed, “Say please.”

“No.”

“Then no riceball."

Atsumu sighs, and in the softest breath he can manage, he utters, “Please.”

“Right away,” is Osamu's reply, voice turned to a lazy drawl as he turns to meet your gaze. “Can you take care of the riceball? Gotta run to the kitchen and grab his highness’ water and _lemon wedge_.”

“Sure.” That smile of yours sits pretty until Osamu’s completely out of earshot—where it inevitably unwinds into a scowl as you meet Atsumu’s gaze across the table. "We're not talking about last night while I'm on the clock. Capiche?"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Wasn't gonna bring up somethin' so borin' anyway."

“You’re incredibly rude for no reason, you know that?”

“Get used to it, sweetheart.”

“What’s your deal?” You hiss, putting on the finishing touches to his riceball before setting it on a new plate. “Did your roommate stab your cat or something?”

He bites into the riceball, “We lost a game. That’s all.”

Right, he’s a volleyball player. With those jacked up muscles, who could forget? _You could forget_ because you never cared about sports and probably will _never_ care about sports. “ _Ugh_. So stupid,” you mutter, looking at his face with absolute disgust. “You lost a game, so you can’t act like a normal human being?”

The novelty of having slept with him affords you a kind of intimacy you probably wouldn’t have with a regular stranger. You feel a little bolder—maybe because he never offered you any indication he would play the part of being polite to begin with. You could drop all pretenses, which granted is a welcome change (you’ve always _despised_ small talk), but you just never thought you would end up being so noxious to one another after all the cards were down.

Still, he looks very sorry for himself—which somehow makes you feel sorry for him too. So you make him an extra riceball, set it on his plate, and stand up from your station. "I really don't like you. You're not a nice person," you tell him, offering him one last withering look before taking off towards the kitchen.

You completely miss the smile that forms on his face as you turn away.

**

“Oi. Wanted to give you a call about the tickets,” says Atsumu, willowing outside the shop while the sun begins to set over the cityscape. “Couldn’t cop ‘em—front office told me it was too last minute. But they’ll keep two extra for me next game.”

He smiles wryly, “Yeah—I know you were lookin’ forward to it.”

As he glances at the storefront, he finds you bringing out appetizers to the table at the far end. You smile a lot, he notices. “Well, there’s always next time sweetheart,” he goes on. When you look up and meet his gaze, that smile on your face immediately vanishes into something of a grimace.

He frowns right back at you, wrinkling his nose.

You stick your tongue out. He reacts by tugging down his eyebag and sticking his tongue back out at you. You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t miss me too much.”

He hangs up when he catches you laughing at Osamu, who’s probably making some stupid dad joke. For whatever reason, he finds himself wondering what your laugh sounds like—if it, of course, sounds exactly the way it did the night he met you at that bar in Ginza.

**

The shop closes up at 10pm, but Atsumu mopes around like a ghost until there are no more customers and the lights are ready to go out. “Don’t you have a social life?” You ask him, wiping down the counter before wringing out the towel over a bucket.

He frowns, “Don’t _you_?”

“I asked first.”

He fusses around with the extra kernels of rice on the counter before flicking them into the trash bin on the table, “Whatever.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s always been salty,” says Osamu, coming out of the kitchen to meet you behind the counter. He squeezes quietly behind you, one hand settled on your lower waist before moving through, “Excuse me.”

You blush almost instantly but focus whatever energy you have left on scrubbing the counter clean. Atsumu, eyes narrowed like a hawk, watches you before snorting. “You’re so damned transparent it’s pathetic,” he says, and it makes you jerk your gaze up with a glare. You toss the towel into his face, making him utter an _oof_ before catching it on his lap with a wet _thwack_.

“She’s cute,” says Osamu, grabbing the towel from his lap before wringing it out over the bucket. “Why don’t you ask her out?”

“Been there, done that. Pass.” Atsumu yawns, mulling over his cup of water like it’s old scotch. “Just not my type.” And then he pauses, narrowing his gaze until his better half looks like a tree branch across the countertop. “Why don’t _you_ ask her out?”

“I’m her boss. Puts her in a weird position,” is Osamu’s reply, sounding very much indifferent about the matter.

 _Huh_.

When Osamu isn’t looking, Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief.

**

He waits until you get off your shift, humming to yourself as you bounce out the front door in the same outfit he saw you in this morning.

“Oi.”

You _shriek_ , whirling around to see him leaning against the door like some weirdo who’s about to mug you, “What the hell is wrong with you,” you hiss, clutching onto the collar of your shirt. “ _I could’ve had a fucking heart attack_ you _psycho_ —"

“Why are you working with my brother. Are you some kinda stalker? Some kinda fangirl?”

You stare at him in actual disbelief as the realization begins to dawn. You _can’t_ believe you actually slept with this guy, “ _Oh my god—_ you’re actually unbelievable,” you state, trying to bypass him, only for him to follow you from behind like a damned dog. “I can’t believe you were literally inside me. Fuck me, right?”

He doesn’t smile, “Not in the mood.”

“That wasn’t—” You run a hand through your hair, taking a breath before turning around to meet his gaze. “You’re annoying me. I’m going home. Don’t follow me.”

“I ain’t followin’ you for shit.”

“Good.”

“ _Great._ ”

“Fantastic,” you hiss, hoping to get the last word in before he clears his throat.

One hand outstretched, he offers you two tickets, “Oi. _Here_.”

You blink at them before meeting his gaze, “ _What is that_.”

“Tickets.”

You roll your eyes, “Thanks, genius. I know they’re tickets.”

“You said you wanted to watch a game,” he mutters. “Just take ‘em before I change my freakin’ mind.”

 _Right_ , you did mention that in passing—you just never thought he would remember and keep up his end of the bargain. But for whatever reason, the way he says it pisses you the fuck off. It feels like he’s offering you a goddamn insult. So when you take it from his hands, it’s slow—fingers hesitant, until he decides time’s up and shoves it into your grasp like he’s tired of you already.

“Best seats in the house,” he says. “ _You’re welcome_ , by the way.”

“Ugh, whatever dude. Goodbye.”

Still, as you walk right past him towards the station, he catches a smile on your face that you can’t quite hide.

**Author's Note:**

> been thinkin bout [joel miller](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25089514/chapters/60776893) and tlou2 a lot
> 
> let's talk on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) :S
> 
> once again id like to thank WINTER for the inspired osamu hand-on-waist headcanon


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